The Mile High Club
by Thaumaturgy
Summary: Rodney learns how to fly a puddlejumper and make John shut up. At the same time. Er…kinda.


**The Mile-High Club**

**Or, a series of interesting circumstance in which Rodney learns to fly, John is annoying, and Rodney finally learns how to shut him up.**

**Also has actually nothing to do with the Mile-high club.**

Summary: Rodney learns how to fly a puddlejumper and make John shut up. At the same time. Er…kinda.

Disclaimer: I do not own puddlejumpers, Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard, or Dr. Rodney McKay. Go away and let me suffer in silence.

Dedicated to my best mate Oralindie and her McShep-loving habits. I did my best…and Happy (Late) Birthday!

* * *

"Jesus!" John yelped, lunging for the controls on the jumper. "What did you do?"

"I don't know!" Rodney yelped back, his eyes wide as Sheppard pulled the ship out of its steep, sudden dive. "I was just flying!"

"Rodney, I know what flying this thing is like. It doesn't just drop—" the colonel broke off, looking at Rodney and raising an eyebrow. "You were thinking about falling, weren't you?"

"No," the scientist said sullenly. "I was just…" thinking about what would happen if the jumper fell. "Oh, fine. You know, I really don't think I'm cut out for this…"

"You're doing fine, Rodney," John said reassuringly, leaning over the other man to do something to the controls. McKay could smell his hair, the sharp tang of hairspray and something minty underneath, and wrinkled his nose. "You just need to stay focused."

Rodney was about to say something biting to that effect, but the words died in his throat when John offered him back the controls, and placed a strong, calloused hand on his shoulder. "Er…"

"Just lean into it," John said, still disconcertingly close, his hand far more distracting than the previous, normal paranoia. Well…almost. "The jumpers are so great to fly, because they're so sensitive, they respond to whatever you're thinking. You have to just…go with it. Don't worry about anything else, just picture yourself going up, breaking the cloud line—Whoa!" The jumper accelerated, breaking into the smooth blankness of the upper atmosphere with force that pushed the two passengers back in their seat. "Good job!"

"Yeah, great," Rodney said. He had almost gotten enough courage to call Sheppard on his hand, which was now centered in the small of McKay's back. Almost. He would have gotten the nerve before now, except a small, stubborn group of brain cells was whispering insidiously to just ignore it. Lean into it, even.

It was worryingly persuasive.

"So, Rodney—Rodney?" He blinked back into focus, and found John's hazel eyes less than a foot from his own.

"What?"

"Okay, McKay, I know astrophysics is fascinating but try not to get lost in the Great Unified theory of Whatever when you're in the driver's seat, all right?"

He would have defended himself, except that would prompt questions of what he had been thinking about instead, so he wouldn't. Except his mouth was usually several seconds ahead of his brain, so he said it anyway. "I'm not _always_ thinking about physics, Colonel."

"Glad to hear it." His hand was still there, and Sheppard's eyes were twinkling like damn Father Christmas. Oh, God. He couldn't mean what Rodney thought he meant. Could he?

"So what were you thinking about, then?"

"No one." Oh, _shit_.

Sheppard didn't disappoint. "Hah! Okay, spill. Who's the great Dr. McKay got his eye on, hm?"

"Like I said. _No one_. Shut up, Colonel, I'm trying to fly."

"Yeah. Sure. Seriously, Rodney, who is it?"

"Nobody."

"Rodney—"

"_No-one_!"

"McKay…"

His voice was wheedling and persuasive and irritating as hell, and Rodney snapped. "You! Fine? Okay? And get your damn hand off me!"

There was silence for a moment in the jumper, McKay flushing a delicate red, and then, incredibly, John smiled. "Really?"

"Er…"

"Honestly, Rodney, who says they have a crush on someone and then tells them to cease bodily contact? Wouldn't the touching, I don't know, not be a problem?"

"I…you…I do not have a _crush_ on you."

"Uh-huh. Right. I believe you."

He was _smug_, Rodney realized. If his grin got any wider, it would probably cause permanent damage to his face—and oh, was it irritating. There was only one thing to do, really…and so Rodney did it. Because no one could say that he wasn't clever, and he didn't like being laughed at.

John was about to say something, had opened his mouth and drew in air for it, when Rodney's hand grabbed his shirt front with, honestly, more force than the colonel had expected, and dragged him forward so that their lips met, and all the gleeful sarcasm fled Sheppard's mind like rats leaving a sinking…er…puddlejumper. Not that there were rats in a jumper. Or if there were, he would have to say something very sharply to someone, because he would never tolerate small scurrying animals on anything _he _flew—

The rest of John's mind shut down now, and all he could do was clutch and grasp until they had to break apart, breathing heavily, Rodney's mouth spread in a grin.

"McKay…what the hell was _that_?"

"Shutting you up."

"Ah."

The two men stared at each other for a moment, faces flushed and hair ruffled—well, really mostly Sheppard's hair, because it gravitated towards that state anyway and Rodney was on the road to losing what hair he had left.

"So."

"So."

And then they reached for each other again, both, for once, in mutual agreement that questions and worries and, in fact, talking in general—besides things like, "Oh _God_, do that again"—could wait for later. Talking was over-rated, anyway.

Fifteen minutes later, John became aware of a swooshing in his stomach that he didn't think was related to what McKay was currently doing, and blinked. It felt like…falling, actually. "Ah…Rodney…who's flying this thing?"

"Er…right."


End file.
